


Human

by Abitfairytailforme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But he does love Sherlock, Drugs, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Illegal Activities, John Watson is Not Gay, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-14 16:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10539825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abitfairytailforme/pseuds/Abitfairytailforme
Summary: Every time Sherlock comes up to him and says, takes the razors away, or don't let me go out, or I need a fix, distract me, it's a reminder to John that, ultimately, Sherlock is human. But no reminder is stronger than every day, when they wake up together, Sherlock'll whisper I love you.5 ways Sherlock is human and 5 ways John reacts.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Been fiddling with this for a bit, finally finished it up. In my opinion, I think the ending's a bit rubbish, but eh.

The first time it happened, John had been living with Sherlock for three months. John had discovered that Sherlock was a surprisingly flexible and loose flatmate when it came to modesty, which was something he did not seem to have. He often walked around the flat in his robe and pjs and, one very very memorable time, in just the robe, half open, showing a lot of his chest and leg. However, John had never seen past the detective's elbows, a shirt always covering it or the sleeves rolled up and stopped at the elbows. Everything in between, sure, but that was it. John had never bothered to inquire why until they were at a crime scene. 

"I need something, anything, to use as a tourniquet!" John had screamed, to busy pressing down on the wound to remove one of his own clothing. Sherlock then, normally, would have given him his scarf, but it was the middle of summer and one of the actually really hot days, so hadn't worn one. He'd ripped off his shirt instead, handing it to John, who promptly wrapped up the wound. It wasn't until they were talking to Lestrade that John had looked at Sherlock. A tad bit too long at his chest - which was, surprisingly, muscled - before sweeping his eyes farther. John noticed it, then glanced at Lestrade who'd paused in his talking, staring at it too, before clearing his throat and continuing. If Sherlock had noticed, which he definitely had, he didn't mention it. 

Later that day, John talked to him.

"I couldn't help but notice that..." Sherlock growled. The growl at an incomplete sentence, incomplete thought. He hated it when people cut off, because then he was left guessing at their emotions, which he was never good at.

"What, John?" Sherlock, in the process of buttoning up his shirt, stopped looking up.

"Can I see your arm?" Sherlock, for the first time in John's memory, looked like he embarrassed. He glared, but slid the shirt off. John touched them, gently. Sherlock glared spitefully for a moment, before turning his head away, tears forming. "Does My-"

"Screw Mycroft." Sherlock whispered, none of the usual venom in it. John was scraping his fingers over the scars, some as fresh as two weeks old at John's guess. Sherlock pulled his arm away and quickly finished putting on his shirt. 

"You know, you can always talk to me." Sherlock, who'd picked up his violin, ignored him, and started playing. John, who had, regrettably, seen this before, just picked up the paper and waited. Suddenly, 5 minutes later, Sherlock stopped playing. 

"I need to do it. It helps me remember."

"Remember what, Sherlock?"

"That maybe I'm normal, that I'm like you. That I bleed and feel pain, even if that pain comes in the form of pleasure for me. And I need to hate myself tomorrow." Sherlock puts the bow back on the string and starts playing again. 

"You know it's not healthy, right?" Sherlock gives an acknowledging look, but doesn't stop playing. "Next time you need to, please don't be afraid to ask me to take away the knives or just spend time with you. You know that, right?" Sherlock just kept on playing. And John never heard about it again. 

~~~

It was maybe 5 months into living with Sherlock that John started to really pay attention to the detective's sporadic schedule. What John figured out was that once every two weeks, Sherlock would leave the apartment suddenly, saying he was going out for research, and came back slightly scraped up. John, finally fed up with the mystery, followed him one day. John, 10 minutes after Sherlock, entered a building Sherlock had gone into. It seemed to be a hot spot, several people going in an out, secretively, money in their pockets. John slid in, after a little flash of some cash at the bouncer, and was shocked at what he saw. Sherlock, in the middle of a ring, at least half a hundred people around the ring cheering as Sherlock faced off against another guy. Sherlock's shirt was off, sweat and grim already starting to form as ducked and punched the guy in front of him. 10 minutes later it was over, the opponent on the ground, possibly blacked out. A lot of the people were cheering, some near the front saying things like, "I knew I could count on you." and "I'm glad you were here tonight." Seemed like Sherlock was a regular. A regular winner too. John saw red and, even though it was technically none of his business, he pushed his way to the ring. 

"Sherlock!" He exclaimed once he'd gotten there. Sherlock who'd been happy, smiling, started, looking at John, fear in his eyes. "You come home right now." He growled. Sherlock, slightly embarrassed, at John's attitude toward him, slightly scared that John was here and what he was going to do. Sherlock grabbed his shirt and followed a storming out John. Sherlock caught up to him quickly, pulling on his shirt. John pushed him roughly when Sherlock got there, much to Sherlock's surprise. "You wanna tell me what the bloody hell that was?"

"Fight club." Sherlock responded easily, an air of aloofness about him. "I go every now and then to keep my skills sharp for a chase." John laughed bitterly.

"Oh it was more than that, you and I both know that. That was a gambling on fights kind of club, Sherlock. You could easily, "Improve your skills" at a gym with willing none injury participants."

"It wouldn't be realistic, John!" John glared at Sherlock.

"You know you are not doing it for the criminals, Sherlock! Christ!" They got home in silence, Mrs. Hudson clicking her tongue at Sherlock like she knew where he was, but didn't say anything directly. When they were upstairs, John asked, softly, not angry any more, "Why do you do it, Sherlock." He doesn't expect it, but Sherlock gives him a clear answer.

"I need it, John. The raw anger and pain of fighting someone else like that. Of just you and him, in the rink, blood and spit and tears. You'll never understand it."

"How can you be so sure? I love being a doctor but I loved the danger and pain of being a soldier too." Sherlock didn't look surprised at that. He just stayed quiet, looking away. "You know you can always talk-" John cut off because Sherlock had walked away. They never talked about that again either. 

~~~

John knew that Sherlock was a junkie. He had actually grown to accept and live with that fact. However, it had taken 6 months of living with Sherlock to actually observe Sherlock really high. John hadn't wanted to believe that Sherlock was hooked on drugs. He didn't, not until he'd seen Sherlock on them. Until then it was rumors, words, whispers. Things John didn't believe. He didn't even believe the subject of those rumors of himself. There was a part of him, a very very childish part of him, that hung, clung, onto the hope that this wasn't Sherlock. That Sherlock was better than that.  However, you can't deny physical evidence, and seeing Sherlock high definitely counted as evidence. And here he was, the next day, standing above a sober Sherlock. One who didn't face him because he knew that he'd upset John. 

"Sherlock-" John said. But he was so tired. He was tired of finding out that Sherlock wasn't above it all. That he was human after all. That he lied and deceived and hurt and bled and was just so  _human._ "I think you know what I have to say." Sherlock huffed, pulling his robe closer to himself.

"It's not like you didn't know about it John, it's actually a part of myself I'm not ashamed about myself, I just hide the evidence because they don't consult in jail criminals. Although they should, there are so many smart ones in jail that could help the clueless Scotland Yard." 

"You act like a privileged brat sometimes, you know?" John spit out. "Not everyone is as smart as you and you are bloody wasting it! Wasting it on cocaine and morphine and whatever else you bloody take! Well guess what, Sherlock. With privilege comes people walking away from you." And John, for once, did not offer to  _talk_ about it. He walked away. They didn't talk about that day again either. 

~~~

A whole year into living with Sherlock. A whole year. A whole year of him having to say that he's not gay. Well, Mr. "I'm not gay" Watson is pressed up against a closed door, a pair of lips on his, a tongue in his mouth, a thigh between his thighs, and adrenaline coursing through his veins. And he's still  _not gay_ thank you very much. He just wants to make that clear. He is not gay. But he does have to admit that he moans and whimpers as Sherlock nibbles on his upper lip. Still not gay though. Just... confused and well, straight with an exception. A very handsome charismatic exception.

"Wait, wait." John says, finally. "I thought..."

"What, John? I'm not a mind reader."

"I thought you weren't interested in this."

"Oh, I am very interested in this right now." Sherlock says, pressing kisses down John's jawline. John whimpers again, noises he's sure to deny later, and his head falls against the door with a dull thud. They ignore it. They've gotten to the phase where clothes are coming off and they are actually moving toward a bedroom - because, seriously, they are way to old to do this on the living room floor - when John has to make it known again.

"I'm just saying, I thought you were, you know, a virgin."

"I am." Sherlock states simply, continuing to unbutton his shirt without so much as batting an eyelid.

"I thought you didn't want to do this..."

"I love you, John, okay?" John stops whatever the hell he was doing because it doesn't matter anymore.

"What?"

"Love. You. I'm saying those two phrases with honesty." John opens his mouth and closes it a few times. "You don't have to say it back. Now or ever, just thought you'd ought to know."

John smiles a little. He wasn't going to say it back. Not yet anyway, that'll be in a month. No, he's smiling because Sherlock can love. And that he loves him. But, at that moment, he'd rather pull of his jumper and continue with whatever was going on. They certainly talk about this.

~~~

The last time Sherlock was human was when John had been living with him for a year and 2 months. I had been when he admitted to John there was a problem. And that they finally talked again about the cutting and the fighting and the drugs. When Sherlock came up to him and said, not I need, but I want, help.

Every time Sherlock comes up to him and says, takes the razors away, or don't let me go out, or I need a fix, distract me, it's a reminder to John that, ultimately, Sherlock is human. But no reminder is stronger than every day, when they wake up together, Sherlock'll whisper I love you. Every time they solve a case he says it. Every time they're having sex, he says it. Every time he just needs to say it, he says it. And every time Sherlock says it, John says it back.  


End file.
